The Cat, The Quilt And The Corpse

Twenty-Five

I spent most of the afternoon piecing paper on my design board. Finding matching colors was the easy part of this re-creation project. Numbers, letters and other printing, I learned, were difficult to put back together, and I was having little success discovering what “lost” or maybe even “found” message went with the picture.

I’d printed out Sophie’s photo, and though the similarities between her and whatever cat was on this flyer were real, obvious differences had begun to appear. But maybe it was just the difference between Sophie posing on a pillow and the cat I was putting back together, who was sitting by what I’d decided was a fireplace. Finally, my eyes burning, I stopped working.

All three cats were waiting as I cracked the door. I pushed interested noses aside with my palm so I could get out of the room without them slipping inside. They weren’t happy about that. If there’s anything a cat hates, it’s a closed door.

But they were happy to follow me to the bathroom and watch from a safe distance as I took a bath. No splotches of late-afternoon sunlight coming in through the window for them to enjoy today, but the steam from the hot water created a comfortable kitty spa. Merlot spread his huge body out on the marble vanity, not caring that he knocked off toothpaste, cotton swabs and moisturizer as he made space for himself.

I had to laugh at Syrah, who found the cotton swabs wonderful for tossing and carrying off to far corners. Yup, a bath with my friends was just what the doctor ordered. Chablis joined me as I blow-dried my hair. She’s the only one unafraid of the dryer, which always made me believe she might have been a show cat and thus used to being groomed. Who knew what homes these three had lived in before?

Tom arrived at seven on the dot, and I had to admit it felt nice when he told me I had a glow about me despite the rainy, gloomy day.

His driving—he’d arrived in a Prius rather than his van—was nothing like what I’d had to endure with Candace. When we parked a block down from the Finest Catch, Tom said, “You’ve gone quiet on me. Was it my driving?”

I had to laugh at that one. “No. You have no idea how much I appreciated your driving. I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

“I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh,” he said as we approached the entrance to the restaurant. “What a great laugh you have.”

He took my hand as we went inside, and though my first instinct was to withdraw, I didn’t. His touch felt warm and strong. I liked it.

After the waitress took our drink order, Tom said, “If you favor bass, they do an amazing job with the largemouth from Mercy Lake.”

“That was easy.” I closed the menu. “Is that what you’re having?”

“Yes,” he said, “but the coffee here sucks. We’ll go to Belle’s after dinner and have a cappuccino, okay?”

“Sounds good. I noticed you say ‘dinner,’ not ‘supper,’ and the way you talk—”

“I was born here, but I left with my mother when I was in grade school. We lived in New York, New Jersey, New Hampshire—all the new places. I truly believe my mother thought about that word as she dragged me around with each new boyfriend.”

“How did you end up back here?” I asked.

Before he could answer, our drinks arrived, white wine for me and Scotch for Tom. The waitress then took our order.

Tom looked at me after she left and said, “All this first-date business is awkward.”

The memory of his hand clutching mine reminded me that despite being urged on by Candace, I felt as if this actually was a date. I liked what I was seeing across the table from me and felt the heat on my cheeks as soon as that thought crossed my mind.

“You feel guilty, don’t you? Like you’re cheating on him?” Tom said.

I nodded. “That is such a cliché. But it’s true. To help me get past it, you have to tell me as much about yourself as you know about me.”

“I already have.” He slugged down a hefty swallow of Scotch. “But I’ll go on. You asked why we came back to Mercy. Because my mother finally found that the twelve steps worked for her and it was time to come home. She’d gotten some money when she divorced her third—or maybe fourth—husband. She bought that little house you’ve been to. I was grown by then, but I have worried about her all my life. I decided I should be close.”

“Sounds like you love your mom a lot,” I said. “She’s an interesting person, that’s for sure.”

“I do love her,” he said. That brought out his smile.

Once we’d moved past conversation about his mother, he opened up about his current job, about how he’d never thought he’d enjoy working for himself but he did, and about how he finally felt, after five years, that he was fitting into the community.

The fish, as advertised, was delicious. Tom had ordered his blackened, while I’d chosen mine broiled with lemon and wine sauce. Unfortunately we never reached a point where I felt comfortable asking him whether he’d been consulted about that wrecked computer. He kept talking about his job and the great fishing here and how he loved the weather while I kept listening.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle as we took the short walk to Belle’s Beans. I decided I needed to give a little information since he’d completely opened up, so I told him about meeting my husband, how we rescued the cats, moved here and thought everything in our little world was perfect.

“Life has a way of doing that—screwing up the perfect times,” he said.

“I was finally getting past the grief and then what happens? I find a body. Never had that on my to-do list.”

He said, “Never thought of it that way, but I understand.”

I said, “I was talking with Daphne Wilkerson today and—”

“Ah, Daphne,” he said. “From what I’ve heard she’s a nutcase.”

I stopped. “She lost her father. I think that’s an especially unkind way to portray her.”

Tom held up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say she was a nutcase. I said that’s what I’ve heard.”

We started walking again. “You did. Sorry. I happen to like her, though.”

“You’re getting to know the neighbors, then.” He pulled open the door, and the smells of roasted beans rushed out to greet us.

“I hope it doesn’t take me five years to fit in,” I said with a laugh.

“It won’t. You’re a lot sweeter than me. Cappuccino okay?”

The weather had brought the town in for coffee, but I was lucky to nab a table just as a couple left. When Tom brought our coffee in real china cappuccino cups, I was surprised. “I didn’t know you had a choice between paper or the real deal,” I said.

“You do, but it’s a poorly kept secret—just like everything else in town.” He offered me a choice between a rock candy stir stick and a tiny chocolate spoon. Guess what I chose.

We both paid attention to our coffee for a few seconds, and finally he said, “Seems I have a new calling—police consultant. I think that’s pretty hilarious.” He stirred the rock candy stick a little faster.

“Why?” I said. I’d been tense all night about this very topic and now he’d brought it up himself. Amazing.

“Because Mike Baca, even though we’re friends, doesn’t exactly think I have many skills. He thought all I could do was install cameras. So he was surprised to learn how much I know about computer forensics—but any decent PI has to know that stuff.”

“Baca asked for your help?” Gosh, I felt like such a fake. And I didn’t like that one bit, so I said, “Actually, let me correct that. I heard he asked you to help. I, too, listen to the Mercy grapevine.”

Tom laughed. “Did Candace encourage you to accept a date with me to find out what I learned? Because I know that girl, and she is steaming mad that she’s been pushed aside.”

“She may have encouraged me, but it didn’t take much convincing. I wanted to go out the first time you asked,” I said. “Although maybe I should be worried about Lydia finding us together. You sure she’s not waiting outside?”

His jaw tightened. “I cannot shake that woman. Did you know she and Mike Baca were involved once? She was on him like a fly on sticky paper the first time they met. He’s since dumped her for Marian Mae Temple, the reigning queen of Mercy. Lydia’s left those two alone, so why won’t she give up on me?”

“I got nothing for you,” I said with a laugh, “except that she maintains she dumped him. I wish Lydia wanted Baca back rather than focusing on you. The elegant and rich Marian Mae is a much better target of her derision, don’t you think?”

“Not in my book. If Lydia thinks she can compete with you, she’s completely deluded. But don’t be fooled by Marian Mae. I installed her security system and she’s as fake as that red-colored crabmeat at the supermarket.”

“You’re kidding. Fake how?”

“I shouldn’t be saying anything about former clients, but since her check bounced and I never collected near what she owed me—mostly because I can’t seem to escape being Mr. Nice Guy—I don’t feel I need to keep secrets about her.”

“She’s not rich? She sure dresses and acts like she is,” I said.

“Rough divorce. Money troubles. I felt sorry for her, I guess. Baca’s taking care of her now, so she’ll be fine.”

“Okay, enough about the Mercy-ites,” I said. “Can you muster a little Mr. Nice Guy and pacify poor Candace? Is there anything you can tell me about that computer?”

“Mom told me that you had Ed open the shop after you heard he’d rescued it from the dump.” He rested a hand on mine. “Even if you’re using me to get information, I don’t give a crap. It’s fine with me.”

“Hey. Don’t think like that. You’re easy to talk to, easy to look at and I’d like to get to know you better,” I said.

“Good. What do you want to know?” he said.

“You’re willing to tell me if you found something on that computer?” I said. This was so much easier than I’d thought it would be—and much more fun than I’d had in the last year.

“Sure, because there isn’t much to tell. Looks like Wilkerson was running his cat business off a MyFriend page. That’s not good news for Baca.”

“MyFriend?” I said.

“Sort of a MySpace and Craigslist rolled into one. But though I reconstructed enough of the hard drive and memory to figure that out, it’s too late for a preservation order. The page he was running—called Match-a-Cat, by the way—has been taken down already.”

“What’s a preservation order?” I asked.

“An order from a judge not to destroy any account access records to the pages a user has created,” he said. “That computer is a challenge all by itself, but then you add the complication of a business run off MyFriend? Tough stuff. Figuring out where the Internet traffic to that site originated is nearly impossible.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Traveling on the Internet is like traveling on any highway. The more turns you take, the harder it is to follow your trail. You log on through your provider, you go to, say, Yahoo or Google or Hotmail, wherever you pick up your mail, and there are passwords at each stop. Using a server like—”

“I got it. It’s sort of like peeling back an onion to find out who’s been logging on. Lots of layers.”

“I’ll quit with the geek speak if you want,” he said.

“If I wanted that, I’d just say, ‘Shut up, Tom.’ ”

He laughed. “I like the direct approach.”

“Can you tell when the page was taken down?” I asked.

“Baca sent a request to the MyFriend owners asking about any sites recently dismantled that had to do with cats, pets, cat breeders, any combination that might offer a clue as to what to look for. He could have been running more pages than his Match-a-Cat. Cheesy name, but probably has good search engine productivity. I don’t expect an answer soon. But whoever dismantled the site had the password, and if it went down after the murder, that’s good information.”

“Meaning the person who shut it down was probably the one who murdered Wilkerson? And perhaps they were in business together?” I said.

“Seems likely, doesn’t it? And probably that person hoped to obliterate all the evidence by smashing that computer to smithereens.”

“Are you sure it’s okay to tell me all this?” I said.

“What am I disclosing? That I did computer forensic work on a battered hard drive and got next to nothing? That’s no state secret. I was glad I got to show the big man I know a few things he doesn’t, though.”

“It’s a competition, then?” I said.

“With men, life’s mostly about competition,” he said.

“And you’re sure the gorgeous Marian Mae Temple has nothing to do with this competition between you two guys?” I said.

“No way,” he said emphatically.

Perhaps a little too emphatically, I decided.

He brought me home not long after, and we spent another couple hours getting to know each other better. Merlot stretched out between Tom and me on the couch. He’d never done that when John and I sat side by side, and I wondered if my big Maine coon was making sure I stayed a respectable distance from this man. But when Merlot turned over for Tom to rub his belly, I figured it was more about getting some affection.

The conversation finally came back to the murder, and I decided to show Tom what I’d done with the shredded paper from the Wilkerson house. Three cats knew what was up and followed us, hoping to get into that darn closed-up sewing room. But they were shut out again.

I flipped on the lights and Tom stared at the pinned-up pieces on the design wall. Finally he said, “All the talking in the world couldn’t tell me this much about you.”

“What does that mean?” I said.

He waved at the wall. “You are a persistent, precise woman. Actually, you should work in a crime lab. They have to do stuff like this all the time. Put pieces of paper back together, look at bugs and dirt and all sorts of crap people never think is important. You’ve gone above and beyond here, Jillian.”

“Funny. Ed said how we throw stuff away before we even know how important it might be,” I replied. “I guess this is an example of how what Flake Wilkerson saved might be important.”

“Good old Ed. He is one cool dude and the best thing that ever happened to my mom—even though he looks like the Unabomber.”

“I’m fond of Ed myself. But back to this.” I waved at my work. “You’ve been inside plenty of Mercy houses these last few years. Do you recognize this gray cat?” I said.

He tilted his head one way and another, looking at the half-constructed pictures. “Doesn’t look like any of the cats Wilkerson had. But why are you even doing this?”

“Because . . . This may sound silly, but I know this is important to finding out what happened last Sunday. And I may not be a policeperson, but I do know how to piece things together. Here, check this out.” I pointed at the photo I’d printed of Sophie that was pinned next to the piecing project.

He stepped closer to the board, and since they were stuck up there at my eye level, he had to bend to compare them. “Similar,” he said. He rotated a finger around where I’d pieced the cat’s front left leg together. “This looks different than the printed-out picture, though. Or is there some trivia about cats changing their spots that I’m unaware of?”

I laughed. “You’re just confirming what I thought. Two different cats.” I pointed at Sophie. “This is the cat Mr. Wilkerson stole from his own daughter. Does it look like any cat you’ve seen, say, in the last year?”

“Cats hide when I work in someone’s house, so I’m not a source of useful information, I’m sorry to say. I might have seen this cat, but that’s like asking me to pick out a specific banana I saw in a bowl on someone’s counter two weeks ago. No can do.”

“Okay,” I said. “It was worth a shot.” I glanced at my watch. It was past midnight.

“Time for me to go?” he said.

“Yeah. But thanks for being so open with me. And for understanding about, well—”

“You hoping to get information from me?” he said. “Anytime.”

His smile was so infectious, so honest, I grinned back. But the major blush burning my cheeks? I had no control over that.

I’d been energized by our evening together, and after he left I returned to finish the gray-cat puzzle. This may not be Sophie, but my gut told me it was important.

Obviously Wilkerson was using every available resource—newspapers, the Internet, postings of lost animals, shelter visits. And no doubt he bought cats at shows if someone had sent him a picture looking for a cat to replace one they’d lost or that had died. This gray cat could belong to someone way under anyone’s radar. Finding a name or phone number connected to this particular cat, or one I hadn’t pieced together yet, could provide an important lead.

Returning to the project at hand, I clicked my gooseneck quilting lamp on so I’d have plenty of light and began the search for the right puzzle pieces to finish this picture.

Two hours later I’d put together enough to know it was definitely not Sophie—even though there were even more similarities than I had seen initially.

Not about to let a little fatigue keep me from smiling, I stood back and admired my work. This was indeed a flyer for a lost cat. And I’d put together every shred. I had the name and phone number I’d been hoping to find.

This lovely, long-haired gray cat was a Mercy-ite—a cat that had once, or perhaps still, belonged to one of the few people in town I knew.